Dirty Soap

"Oh, great!" I mocked. I kneed him softly in the thigh. "I can enjoy a nice candlelight dinner with a fucking Labrador retriever."

"Hey." He rolled off me, clearly done for the night. "You don't know. Jersey might be really good in bed." I hit him with my pillow. "What? I mean, he's a male dog..."

"You're pathetic." I smiled despite myself. Jeff was awesome; I couldn't understand why he wasn't making me cum these days. Speaking of which. "I'll make Lucas cook for me. He can earn his keep finally. He just lays around doing jack-shit." Lies, of course; Lucas did a lot of the cooking. I could tell he was mortified to have to stay here, but I didn't mind. Apart from my naughty use of his soiled soap, I loved having a dog around the house again. It was the main reason I'd agreed to the whole thing.

Jeff was looking at me with those eyes of his; I could tell, even in the dark. I sighed, knowing he could hear the smile in my voice when I spoke. "I love you, you dumbass."

"I love you too, you dogfucker."

And I meant it. But he still didn't make me cum that night, or any other night lately.

* * *

I hated breakfast shift. Hated it. The tips blow; the kind of people who go out for breakfast at our restaurant are the kind of people who've been going out for breakfast at our restaurant since 1978, and they still insist on tipping like it. And since I got a cut of the tips, I hated breakfast shift.

It was also boring. The reordering, the recipes, the stocking, the smells: always the same. No surprises. Even the end of the shift, with all the line bitches prepping their mise for the other meals, was the same.

Managing a restaurant is often a fun challenge, and a lot of the moments aren't dull: I've broken up many fights, dealt with the joys of having an employee quit, loudly, during service. A woman went into labor once at Table 12. I've caught people doing everything in our bathrooms, from lines of coke to bareback anal sex. I've seen marriage proposals and divorce proposals, and every one of them had something interesting I could add to my memory, to be trotted out later for admiring friends and loved ones.

But that's the thing. None of those exciting little events -- not a damn one of them -- ever happened on the breakfast shift. So I was in a pissy mood when I got in. And, on top of it all, I was on my period that week. So when the phone rang at 8:30 on Friday night, it bleeped starkly into a living room where the three of us were sitting around quietly. I was doing my masters', Jeff was grading his students' math work, and Lucas was noodling around on his ukulele. We all swapped the same pained glance as the phone yelled at us.

Fuck. "Well?" I demanded. Lucas was usually careful to not be at home when she called. "You going to answer that shit? You know it's for you."

He just blinked at me, moon-faced, and in that second or two between the third ring and the fourth I saw something new in Lucas Sanders. He'd always seemed passive, distant: now? Now I saw a sort of reptile coldness in his eyes, even calculation. Like he knew he was a badass, and took pains to hide it.

Like he could have anyone, any time.

I'm sure it was the hormones that made me tingle in that moment. It had to be, right? And I wasn't really wet; no way. It had to be the fucking maxi-pad. I wanted to shudder, then perhaps rip my yoga pants off and jam myself with my thickest dildo until I screamed, but Jeff was sitting there watching me. And, you know, Lucas... I put on a scowl. "Pick it up, Lucas."

He just stared, and as the next ring trailed off he grew, if anything, even more calculating, harsher perhaps. But the phone kept going; she never stopped until someone answered, even if the voicemail picked up in the interim. She'd just call again. I looked from him to Jeff, whose entire body posture screamed one thing: bros before hoes. I gave my most exaggerated sigh, then threw my laptop to the couch beside me and stalked across the room to grab the phone. "Meredith," I bit out into the receiver, glaring down at Lucas.

I was standing right over him now, wondering what he'd do if I shoved my pants down and grabbed my pussy right in his face. "He's here, and he's fine, but he's in the bathroom." We all listened after that, but only I heard the reply from the other end of the line. "No. He's not going to want to talk to you. Period, Meredith." I winced, then had to pull the phone away from my ear a tad; Meredith could be shrill. "Yes. That's what he's told me. On many occasions." A pause. "Yes. Of course we talk."

Meredith wasn't pleased about that, but I wasn't having any.

"No," I said to her, probably a lot louder than I needed to, "and you can just shut the hell up about that. I'm a married woman, so fuck off." I went to hang up, then brought the receiver back up to spit one last sentence. "And, again, stop calling us, Meredith."

I slapped the phone down, resolving one more time to ditch the landline, and stuck my tongue out at Lucas. "Well," I simmered, "congratulations. She now thinks you and I are fucking." Okay, fine, maybe there was a bit too much drama in the way I flounced back to the couch and plopped my non-ass down onto the cushions. But I was sick of talking to her. "And next time," I said again, for at least, what, the fifth week? "Next time? You're picking up, Lucas."

He just stared at me, his dog sitting at his feet. Never once had Lucas stopped strumming that fucking uke.

* * *

I was still keyed up a few days later, as Tuesday rolled around and I put in my last breakfast shift for, I hoped, awhile. I was pissy coming home, my pants stinking of coffee because that dumb junkie Karen had knocked a full carafe off the drip maker and onto my fucking shoe. I wondered, driving home, why I hadn't fired her immediately.

Probably because she had a lot of regulars. Well, wearing push-up bras will do that for you, even if all her disciples were old drunks who only came in for the overpriced Denver omelette and stole the sugar packets. But they paid, and paid reliably, all thanks to Karen's cleavage. But that didn't help my mood any.

So I plopped onto my couch, fired up the TV, and zoned out almost immediately. Lucas let a few minutes pass before I heard his door open down the hall; I didn't even have to look back to know he'd be standing there, staring at the back of my head while leaning against the pass-through. "Hi, Lucas," I sighed.

"Hi yourself." Fuck me. His voice was that deep, syrupy drawl he'd always had; why did I find it so sexy? I got a tingle between my shoulderblades, a Pavlovian reaction to wanting him to come give me a backrub. "You smell like coffee."

"No shit," I snorted. "You can guess how my morning went."

He paused, his reply deliberate as always. "I can." I leaned my head back and closed my eyes and wondered whether I could possibly, in any universe, ask him to come rub my shoulders. They tingled at the thought. "Just relax. I'm cooking tonight."

"Ah!" I felt a grin spreading over my face despite my bad attitude, and then wondered whether he could see it. "The big V-day dinner. Just you and me. Candles and wine?"

"Only the best," he rumbled back, and I could visualize the shrug. I still hadn't turned around.

"Mmm." I wondered how far I should go. "Whatever would my darling husband think?"

"If it'll make him feel better," he went on gravely, "I'll just call a Chinese place."

I burst out laughing, hating myself for responding to him, my face scarlet. "So romantic," I managed, still giggly, feeling like a tease. But I couldn't help myself. "We could play spin the bottle."

"Ha." He was enjoying this; he had to be, but those flatly even tones of his made it hard to be sure. "With two? Not much suspense there, Bev."

"Duh." I sighed, still smiling, my eyes staying shut. I wondered whether he was getting hard. "No. I'm sure it'll be delightful. You don't even have to get me flowers."

"Good," he came right back, "because I wasn't planning on it." I heard a shuffle as he turned around to go back down the hall, then he added the afterthought. "I already showered."

Fuck yeah. "Thank you. I need one." Hell fucking yes, I needed one. I needed a bar of soap. And goddamn if I didn't get one, in spades, the orgasm every bit as intense as they'd all been lately, me staring down at his hair tangled in mine as I got dressed afterward.

* * *

And, on top of that, the boy could cook.

I shoved back a plate spattered with the wreckage of thinly-sliced beef roast, a daub of horseradish teetering dangerously off the edge beside the remains of the cheddar polenta. There was no trace, anymore, of the green beans, blanched, with plenty of pepper; I'd murdered those immediately. I smiled across at him. "Well! Happy Valentine's Day to you, too." I nodded at the plate. "Delicious, Lucas. Thanks."

"It's the least I could do." He was in a black t-shirt with guitars on it. He'd gotten a haircut the other day; it looked good short. "You've been an amazing hostess. I'm sorry I've stayed this long."

"I'm not," I volleyed right back, and then I blushed; my eyes took their sweet time rising back to his face. Goddamn wine. I tossed my head defiantly when I saw his eyes narrow. "What? You can cook. And Jersey is a trip. And... well, you're fun to have around."

He cracked a smile, more of a smirk really; this was the same brutal, self-assured side of him I'd seen when I'd been on the phone on Friday. Dude knew exactly how sexy he was; he knew when he was wanted, I realized with a nervous stab straight to my pussy. I shuddered in my seat. "Fun," he mused, staring straight into my eyes; Jesus. What had happened to this guy to make him so sure of himself? So sure of me? I cleared my throat.

"Fun." I said it firmly, and then I poured the rest of the wine into both our glasses. He watched his fill, those eyes warm and dark. I debated about my phrasing before I opened my mouth this time, wondering how much I should say. How oblique I should be. "It's nice to have another guy around to look at, too." I hoped I'd pitched my voice with the right kind of jokey familiarity; I was going for flirty, not eager. I gestured around the room. "It's useful to have an alternate when Jeff is chaperoning dances and shit."

He laughed, nodding, and sipped at his wine. "You like showering after me too, I've noticed."

"What?" I knew I was immediately pale, immediately shaken, and suddenly flirty was off the table; so was eager. No, more like desperate. He was still nodding.

"It's hard not to notice." He sighed, then reached into his back pocket to bring out a small red envelope. "I've known for awhile," he went on quietly, and then he was sliding the envelope across to me between my serving dishes. The ones I'd gotten as wedding presents. "It's okay," he soothed me; I could only imagine my face, staring at the envelope. "Just a Valentine. Open it up." I made myself still my hand as my fingers went for the little red rectangle. "Something to remember me by, sort of."

"What's in here?" I hoped my voice wasn't as squeaky as it felt. "Like, just a card?"

"And a couple other things." I was looking into his face, searching hard for nervousness, or shame, or even excitement. I got nothing in return but that intense, flat stare, the same one he always had. Straight into my soul. "Open it," he ordered, and as if I couldn't even control myself I took the nice Wusthof steak knife and slit the envelope, leaving a speck of grease on it. He nodded again, decisively, and then leaned back in the chair. It probably creaked as it took his weight, but damned if I noticed.

The card was small, like the size of an RSVP card in a wedding invite, and it sported a tasteful red heart embossed into it. Trembling, I thumbed open the fold. Strong, big-looped cursive in what looked like a fountain pen; he'd only written a sentence or two, but I didn't even see the words.

I was too busy staring at a long, perfect, coiled black pubic hair, held to the other flap with a little piece of scotch tape.

"Holy shit," I blurted. I'd never felt myself flush before, not like this: a sudden heat, like someone had turned on a lightbulb behind my face. It actually felt a little like the sensation I got behind my pussy when I was really craving dick, only this was hotter and less pleasant. The card was trembling in my hands; when I looked up, slowly, my eyes trailing over his whiskered jeans and his t-shirt shirt, I know I didn't look embarrassed.

I looked frightened.

Lucas was smiling, though, an easy smile at odds with his old shyness; where had this confidence come from? Holy shit. Was I that readable? "It's okay," he said evenly, and all at once I felt like a little fucking girl, like he was seeing right through me. I felt like the chick on the other end of the Friday phone. "You left gouges in the soap. It's been pretty obvious for awhile now what's going on."

Instinctively my hand went to my neck, to pull the collar of my shirt together; I felt like I could pull my head right down into there, hiding like a turtle. And Lucas just sat there, like he had twenty other times at twenty other meals, but this time he wasn't giving off diffidence. He was giving off confidence. He cocked his head. "Am I wrong?" he asked, his deep voice leaving me in absolutely no doubt he knew he wasn't. I licked my lips and, at last, met those droopy brown eyes of his.

Slowly, I felt myself unclench, felt myself click into manager mode; what the fuck did I have to be ashamed of? This was my fucking house he was living in. The fingers at my neck flew apart, froglike, and I drew myself back up in the chair, lifting my chin. "You know you're not wrong," I replied flatly, and the relief I felt when my voice came out so evenly, so clearly, gave me strength. I let him see me look down at the card with its accusing, wiry little hair, let him watch as I pulled it from under the tape, as I took it on my fingertip and brought it to my eyes. "You know it."

He was nodding, but clinically, as thought this was something that happened every day. "It's no big deal, Bev," he reasoned. "A lot of people have fetishes." I felt my eyebrow shoot up. "The hair, I mean."

I reached my finger out, the pube still balancing, and rubbed my thumb across it to send it fluttering to the floor. "It's not a fetish, Lucas," I told him softly, articulating it to myself for the first time. I was still hot as fuck; I knew I must be scarlet, the flush shooting down past my unbuttoned collar, to where he'd be looking at my cleavage. And why the hell shouldn't he? I arched my back just a little. It's not like there was any big secret now, not anymore. "It's not the hair. It's what the hair represents." I licked my lips again. "It's what it tells me, what it reminds me, about where the soap has just been."

"Ahh." Both of Lucas' black brows rose as he nodded. I wondered whether he was getting hard, and decided he had to be. I wondered, suddenly, what he'd do right now if I just marched over to him, sank to my knees, whipped those pants off and took that fucking cock of his straight into my mouth, boldly, unapologetically. He kept nodding as the thought made me shiver, right there in front of him. "Well. Then I'm honored, Bev." He nodded once more, decisively, and then? Holy motherfucker! The bastard winked! "Now I've got something to think about when I hear you in there, after me."

He was gone, then, leaving me with my ridiculous pube and the silly little card. I felt ashamed. Schooled, even. And, naturally, hornier than I could recall being in months. I found myself sitting at the table, staring down at where Lucas' pube lay on the rug.

My husband benefitted from all that as soon as I walked in the door, the dishes still filthy on the table, and I thought about Lucas, listening in my craft room down the hall while my mouth sucked Jeff straight into paradise.

* * *

The next day was... interesting.

The restaurant had me back on dinner again for the actual Valentine's night and the week after, which would leave Lucas and I together every day until around three in the afternoon, which was when Jeff usually got home. Just like before Valentine's... but not really just like that at all. No. Everything was different now.

I sensed it as soon as I got into the shower; I'd headed in there right after I rolled out of bed, before Lucas had the chance, my head still tight from the wine. I was loud, too, making sure he heard me; I felt a grim sense of victory when my fingers touched the smooth, dry soap. Fuck him. I'd show his arrogant ass what he could think about in the shower.

He had to be listening, I figured, his little ears shoved up against the wall between the bathroom and my craft room, but even if he wasn't, I vowed he'd hear me. I was already charged right up, already juiced, just from remembering last night: the guy had sat there brazenly and smirked at me while he gave me one of the hairs off his dick.

So dirty.

I rubbed at the surface of the soap, and then decided there was no point: he hadn't used it yet. The last cock that thing had touched was my husband's, so it did nothing for me. I left the bar in its tray, balanced my foot on the edge of the tub, and edged my hand underneath my butt, coming sideways at my pussy while my other hand already had pressure applied to my lower abdomen.

Right away I knew this was going to be a big one. I hunched myself lower, reaching further around my ass while the water pummeled my back, just stroking myself for now, petting, closing my eyes and imagining it was Jeff, or my old high school boyfriend Jay, worshipping my body before he took me; Jay had always been my best lover.

Or maybe, these days, I was thinking about Lucas.

Fuck. Whomever; my skin was already tingling, the unscratchable itch blooming between my thighs, steam rising up all around me. My right hand's job was simple: light pushes, or rather pulses, the different fingers pressing with controlled urgency into my flesh around the top of my slit, fluttering occasionally even higher, tickling me as my nails ran through the flowing water. I was careful to avoid my clit; it wasn't time yet.

The fingers of my left hand were the busy ones at this point, running roughshod over the corrugations of my labia, prodding from time to time into the hot, soaked gap in between. Oh, fuck; I felt feverish, my body shivering and goosebumped despite the hot water, despite the hot steam, despite the hot thoughts, and I was moaning already. The kernel of sanity I still had, deep in my brain, reminded me I wanted this to sound good, so I upped the volume and added some breathy gasps, directed toward Lucas' wall.

I didn't need to fake that, really. Not for long.

The lips between the fingers of my left hand soon grew stiff, rubbery, the jolts attacking my body with greater force as I stroked myself. I dug in harder with my right hand, and at the point where my instincts told me to go lower I did, pushing straight against the top of my vagina, my mouth dropping open as I sucked in great gasps of moist air. And when that air came back out, pushed by my heaving lungs, it was spiced now with sharp, loud yelps; I sounded like a coyote, probably, yipping my growing tension out into the world for all to hear. Only, I was really only interested in one person hearing me.

Abruptly, I realized it was time; I shifted my hands, and now my right one took up the slack, curling under, hooking my pussy like an eager trout, pulling sharply up on the skin around my clit, and I was screaming at once. No faking, just yowling. My other foot slid down off the rim of the tub; somehow I kept my balance, wavering, my left hand drifting slick across my belly now while I jabbed my needy cunt over and over again, stroking, stabbing, my eyelids fluttering, and suddenly I was cumming like a helpless virgin on her wedding night.